


pretty as a painted picture

by kirargent



Category: Shadowhunter Chronicles - All Media Types, Shadowhunter Chronicles - Cassandra Clare, Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, F/F, Past Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-02
Updated: 2016-03-02
Packaged: 2018-05-24 10:03:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6150019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kirargent/pseuds/kirargent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maia eyes the Shadowhunters and their weapons with raised eyebrows, her hands half rising in a joking position of surrender. “I come in peace,” she says, “or whatever. Don't kill me, okay?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	pretty as a painted picture

**Author's Note:**

> for [tsc femslash week](http://lesbianlightwood.tumblr.com/tagged/tscfemslashweek) on tumblr! day 3: fave rarepair
> 
> this fic follows the show not the book--except for the fact that I've plopped maia into the picture. so, fans of both should be good; show-only fans will likely understand everything (spoilers are quite minor, really just super minor character spoilers related to a girl named maia; read at your own risk tho); books fans..... idk you'll probably be able to make sense of it but it's a little different? but tbh feel free to message me if u don't understand who lydia is or what's going on with izzy or something.
> 
> (fairly minor) spoilers through episode 1x08 bad blood

The monitors flare up with warning of an intruder, and the Institute is bristling with weapons in a matter of seconds. After Lydia Branwell's mockery of their laxness, they don't want to appear caught unawares again.

Isabelle rolls her eyes.

Alec calls mundies ants, but Isabelle sometimes thinks the comparison would be just as apt for Shadowhunters, superior race or not.

The Institute doors are opened, the intruder allowed inside once they've been deemed not a threat. Isabelle watches a girl enter the lofty front hall, her pale gold hair captured in a multitude of skinny braids against her scalp. Her clothing, ratty sneakers, tight blue jeans, and a pink t-shirt, is more like the outfits Clary wears than the dark clothing in which Shadowhunters usually dress.

She eyes the Shadowhunters and their weapons with raised eyebrows, her hands half rising in a joking position of surrender. “I come in peace,” she says, “or whatever. Don't kill me, okay?”

Isabelle's stomach tightens. _Maia_.

Isabelle suddenly feels even more ill-at ease in her modest turtlenecked dress than she did a few moments ago.

The girl's eyes scan the front hall, quick and perceptive. The catch for a long moment on Isabelle. Her mouth curves with a slow smile.

“Isabelle?” she says.

Isabelle's stomach turns. At least Lydia Branwell is elsewhere with Alec—but her mother is still around, watching curiously.

Now is not the time for this to be happening. Not when Isabelle has turned over a new leaf, abandoned her fun-loving ways, etcetera, etcetera.

“Maia Roberts,” says Isabelle, striding forwards calmly and extending a hand to the teenage girl. “Did Luke send you?”

Maia's thin eyebrows arch higher. “Really?” she says, sounding incredulous. Isabelle's stomach fills with heavy dismay: She knows what's coming. “The other time we met we were at a Downworlder party and we danced and then you stuck your tongue down my throat and we hooked up, and all you have to say is 'Did Luke send you'?”

Isabelle presses her mouth into a tight, annoyed smile. “Not here,” she says quietly. Her smile is sharp with warning. “Okay?”

Maia rolls her eyes. “Whatever.”

Taking that as agreement, Isabelle grips Maia by the upper arm and steers her away from the bustling front hall and into an empty office, furnished with desk and chair but currently unused.

“Why are you here, Maia?” Isabelle asks, leaving the door ajar so that their meeting doesn't appear _unseemly_. (In Isabelle's head, she hears that word in her mother's voice.)

Maia's soft mouth quirks with a bemused smile. “Luke sent me.”

Tamping down the annoyance that rises hot and fast in her chest, Isabelle folds her arms calmly. “And you couldn't have just said as much out there?”

Maia tilts her head to the side as if considering. “Hm,” she says. “No.”

Isabelle closes her eyes for a second. When she opens them, it's to see Maia watching her expectantly.

“Where's Alaric?” Isabelle asks. “Gretel?”

Maia cocks a hip. “Busy.”

Isabelle grits her teeth. “Were you the only one available?”

Maia shrugs. “Well, Bat wasn't busy. But, you know, he punched out a Shadowhunter the last time he talked to one, so—”

“All right,” says Isabelle. “All right. Whatever. Why did Luke send you?”

Moving almost too fast to see, Maia grabs a small, glinting something from her pocket and flips it toward Isabelle with a lazy flick of her wrist.

Isabelle catches it without flinching, her hand snatching the item from the air with Shadowhunter speed to match that of the werewolf.

She looks down at the small vial she now holds, turning it over in her fingers. The glass reflects the yellowy overhead light; the contents of the vial are translucent, cloudy-pale.

“What's this?” asks Isabelle. She glances back up to Maia.

“Venom from that shapeshifter demon you guys ran into at the police station.” She looks and sounds faintly bored. “Luke said you might want it. Have your—I don't know, pathologist or whatever analyze it.”

A smirk tugs at the corners of Isabelle's mouth, but she squishes down the pleased bubbly feeling behind her sternum at the thought that Luke wants the Institute's pathologist to analyze the venom. The Institute's pathologist being Isabelle, of course.

“Great,” says Isabelle crisply, putting on a polite smile. “Thank you. I'll show you the way out.”

Maia rolls her eyes. “I'm not gonna go rogue and try to attack a bunch of Shadowhunters on my way to the door, you know.”

Isabelle gives a dainty shrug. “You never know,” she says loftily.

A dark scowl twists Maia's pretty features—frankly, it's an expression Isabelle has seen on many a Downworlder.

“You Shadowhunters really are all the same, aren't you? Has it ever occurred to a single one of you that us Downworlders aren't just inferior demon scum?”

Isabelle ignores the guilt that pinches her throat, opening the door wider for Maia and following her from the office silently.

“I mean, I thought maybe you were different, but that was just—what, an act? You wanted to sleep with a dirty Downworlder, and once you'd had your fun you went back to—” She gestures at Isabelle's general appearance, the knee-length dress and neatly straightened hair, her makeup pretty but nothing flashy “—all this?”

“Yes,” says Isabelle icily. Her heels click against the Institute floor. She is hyper-aware of the sick feeling growing in the pit of her stomach at Maia's words, at the way they hit home—this isn't Isabelle, not really—but she's even more aware of the gazes of the other Shadowhunters following them as she guides Maia to the front doors. “That's all it was.”

Maia turns to glare at her before she goes.

Isabelle stares back coolly.

“I can see why Bat started a brawl last time he met a Shadowhunter,” Maia says, her lips pinched with disgust. Then she turns on her heel, and she's gone.

Isabelle returns to her tasks, only pausing periodically to straighten her dress, the high neckline uncomfortable at her throat.

 

(If the word “ _unseemly_ ” echoes in Isabelle's head in her mother's voice, then the phrase “ _you Shadowhunters really are all the same_ ” rings in Maia's angry tones.)

 

**Author's Note:**

> [also on tumblr](http://lesbianlightwood.tumblr.com/post/140354836866/tsc-femslash-week-day-3-favorite-rare-ship)


End file.
